The sun made like a runaway today.
Let me lay you on your back, bare.
Crawl up on you like a curious, hungry animal,
and occupy myself with sniffing your scent.
Smells of you.
Because, the smell of the skin below your wrist
is not the smell of the skin stretching over your ankles
is not the smell of the thumping skin above your jugular
nor that of the skin behind your ear.
It will not smell of the skin between your legs
which will not smell as does the stench of your armpit.
Or the smell of your open mouth.
And, my incessant humming
will become Sygyt.
The strangely drone of polyphonic overtone singing.
And once I’m done,
I would pad circles on you
, like a dog preparing to sleep
, of tossing and turning
, wrapping round you.
For warm comfort.
Finding the right proper position of
a deep winter nuzzle.